


Poetic License

by StarSpray



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingon the Valiant, Gen, Humor, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Fingon got to be called The Valiant, involving a grumpy badger, Fingon's pride, Maedhros' quick thinking, and Maglor's (decidedly wicked) imagination.</p><p>Written for Zeen for the 2013 LotR SeSa exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetic License

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> The Scenario prompt was: “Tragic best friendship. You can stick to the good times (what little of it there was) or plunge into the angsty sea that is the Silmarillion! Smut would not go amiss, but anything would be nice.” So I decided to go light on the tragic and heavy on the good times.

 “Well. That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen,” Maitimo said, his face swimming into view as Findekáno blinked slowly, wondering what it was about the light that made Maitimo’s famous hair so particularly _red_ at that moment, and why his head throbbed like someone was pounding on a drum somewhere inside. “Káno? Findekáno? Hello?” Maitimo snapped his fingers in front of Findekáno’s face. “Are you all right?”

Findekáno blinked again. “What happened?” He recalled racing through the woods on their horses, and being in the lead… Then his horse had veered off the path suddenly, and the rest was a little hazy.

Maitimo shook his head, his expression one of vague exasperation layered over concern. The one he adopted when Tyelkormo or Carnistir did something foolish. “We disturbed an irritable badger. Your horse bolted, and you went flying out of the saddle, landing on top of the badger’s den.” Maitimo gestured off to the side, where there was a thoroughly destroyed badger’s den beneath an old tree, an inverse mound of dirt and leaves. “I suppose we should thank the Valar you didn’t get _bitten_ as well.”

“Oh.” Findekáno started to raise himself up on his elbows, but thought better of it when the world tipped and spun as soon as he moved.

Maitimo noticed. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts a bit.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Maitimo held up his hand, long fingers extended.

“Two.”

“You’ll be fine. And since we now only have one horse, because Oromë knows where yours went, I’m going to have to go back to Tirion for help.” Maitimo stood, and helped Findekáno to his feet. Or rather, his foot. With much pain, many creative curses, and several admonishments to stop acting like a baby, they managed to reach a nearby stream, where Maitimo settled Findekáno against a large mossy rock, with stern instructions to _stay put_.

Findekáno gestured to his leg. “It isn’t as though I _can_ wander off, is it?”

“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t _try_.” Maitimo dropped a wineskin by his side, and the basket with their lunch. “Try to eat something, if you feel well enough. I don’t think you’re concussed, but try not to fall asleep either.”

“Yes, _Amil_.” Then, as Maitmo turned away, Findekáno called, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Maitimo turned, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll have a hard time hiding a broken leg, Káno.”

“I mean _how_ I broke it.”

That made Maitimo laugh. “I suppose. If I can come up with a story by the time I get home, I’ll try to save your pride.”

“Thank you.”

The silence that descended on the forest after Maitimo cantered away was sudden and heavy, broken only by the stream’s music. Findekáno sighed and leaned back against the rock, watching Laurelin’s light dance on the water, sparkling on its surface like gold and diamonds, like those gems in the lamp base…

He dozed as the pain in his head faded, not quite falling asleep, as songbirds came and went, and a deer passed by, pausing to look at the strange elf with his leg bound stiff with sticks and a purple lump on his head. He imagined it was laughing at him, or at least congratulating itself on its luck, since he was clearly not a hunter lying in wait. For a while he thought the badger might return, but it seemed to have gone to find another place to make its home.

Finally, he heard voices, and the creak of a cart trundling along the forest path, and roused himself. Fëanáro led the way, and shook his head when he saw Findekáno. Macalaurë trailed along behind, looking sullen. He’d probably been dragged away from his latest songwriting endeavors to come rescue Findekáno.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten about me,” Findekáno said to Maitimo as he and Fëanáro helped him up.

Maitimo laughed. “Never.”

“How did you manage to break your leg, Findekáno?” Fëanáro asked as they hoisted him carefully into the cart.

“There was a mountain lion,” Maitimo answered, winking at Findekáno. “It would have done more damage than this to me, had Findekáno not leapt from his horse to distract it.”

Fëanáro raised a skeptical eyebrow as he handed Findekáno a bottle of some bitter-smelling liquid. “A mountain lion. I see.” Findekáno kept himself from blushing by downing the bottle’s contents, swallowing quickly, but still being left with the sour aftertaste. “I’m sure _that_ is a tale that will grow in the telling.” Indeed, Macalaurë already looked interested, and plied both Findekáno and Maitimo for details on the ride home. Findekáno closed his eyes and leaned on Maitimo’s shoulder, letting him do the talking as the pain medicine Fëanáro had given him started to take effect.

Findekáno’s parents were waiting in front of the house when they arrived home. “What _happened?_ ” Anairë exclaimed, rushing to run her hands over Findekáno’s face and arms. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Irissë in the doorway rolling her eyes.

With matching grins, Maitimo and Macalaurë launched into their tale of lions (there were two now) and Findekáno’s incredible bravery. Nolofinwë listened, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair by the end of it. Fëanáro rolled his eyes and hoisted Findekáno out of the cart, thrusting a pair of crutches into his hands before cutting off his sons. “A mishap in the forest is all.”

“Well, how bad is it?” Anairë asked, turning her attention to Findekáno’s leg.

“Tyelkormo has suffered much worse,” Fëanáro said, already turning away, his mind back on whatever project he had been working on before Maitimo had interrupted. “Macalaurë, are you coming?”

“Yes, Atar.” Macalaurë shot Findekáno a devious smile as he climbed into the cart beside his father, and Findekáno grimaced. It would not be long, he knew, before Maitimo’s ridiculous story was put into song for all of Tirion to hear.

His parents mistook his grimace for one of pain, and he found himself practically carried inside by Maitimo and his father, while Irissë was sent running for a healer.

After the general chaos had died down, and everyone was calm, and Findekáno installed in his room with a plaster cast on his leg and some nasty herbal mixtures to drink for the pain, his father crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “And what were you doing in the forest in the first place, Findekáno?” he asked.

“Riding?”

“When you should have been here with your tutor. This is the third time in recent weeks you have skipped your lessons.”

Findekáno felt his face turn red, and decided that the very simple explanation – that history lessons had become indescribably boring – was probably not the best thing to say. “I don’t suppose a broken leg could be considered enough punishment?” he asked instead.

Nolofinwë’s lips twitched, just a little. “For now, I suppose. Get some rest, Káno.”

In the end, his pride turned out to be an even worse punishment than a broken leg. By the time Findekáno’s leg was healed, all of Tirion was talking of the pride of lions he had fended off single-handedly with nothing but a stick and a couple of rocks – influenced primarily by the epic-style song Macalaurë had written about it (he claimed poetic license; that did not stop Findekáno from setting a stray cat loose in his music room, which resulted in a lot of shredded paper and an equal amount of squawking from Macalaurë).

Maitimo shrugged helplessly when Findekáno turned to him in mute astonishment after the song was first performed – at a festival – in front of Finwë, Olwë, _and_ Ingwë. “You didn’t want me to tell anyone about the badger, and the lion was the first thing I thought of when my father asked.”

“But they’re calling me _The Valiant_.”

“Yes, well.” Maitimo grinned as he flung his arm around Findekáno’s shoulders, nearly knocking him over. “You _very bravely_ fell off your horse onto the badger’s den. I am certain your actions have prevented many an unsuspecting rider from suffering a similar or worse fate at the badger’s claws. Honestly, if you think about it even the actual story is quite heroic…”

Findekáno shoved him off, laughing in spite of himself. “Oh, shut up.”

Then Maitimo grew serious, and tugged thoughtfully on one of Findekáno’s braids. “I have no doubt you’ll earn the epithet someday, Káno. Only I hope you don’t break anything else in the process.”


End file.
